


Foot, The

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-07-10
Updated: 2001-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-20 07:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11331273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A little foot and hand play.





	Foot, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

The Foot by Josan

TITLE: The Foot  
AUTHOR: Josan  
DatE: October 7, 1999  
SUMMARY: A little foot and hand play.  
PAIRING: Sk/K (Who else, eh!)  
RATING: PG-13  
ARCHIVE: Ratlover, CJK. Others: please ask.  
COMMENTS:   
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but they belong to all of us who love them.  
DEDICATION: For Jonah in the whale, who gave me the germ of this idea. And then added the socks. White ones. 

* * *

The Foot  
by Josan

Alex threw himself on the couch, made himself comfortable, long legs taking up most of the seating area. He grabbed the remote, surfed until he found what he was looking for: the soccer game between Italy and Germany. Settled in to enjoy. 

Walter looked in on his way to the kitchen. "Want anything?" 

"A beer would be nice." Alex kept his eyes on the screen. Walter watched a bit. Since Alex had moved in, he'd learned to follow the game: not that he enjoyed it anywhere as near as he did football, but he could appreciate some of the finer points. 

In the kitchen, he pulled two beers from the fridge: a pilsner for himself, a lager for Alex, opened them, strolled back into the living room. He handed Alex his, got an absent-minded "Thanks" and stayed to watch some of the action. He pushed Alex's feet to clear seating space, smiling when one of the Italian players threw himself to the ground in a dramatic display of pain in order to gain a bit of time for his team. 

When he'd first started watching soccer with Alex, Walter kept on expecting to see a stretcher come out onto the field to carry off the writhing player who obviously had, at least, a broken leg. It had surprised him that, after the time allotted for injury, the player would dramatically rise to his feet, stumble about for a couple of steps then take off after a ball like nothing had happened. 

Now he just enjoyed those moments for the Oscar-winning performances they were. To him, football was serious: soccer was play. He enjoyed the comedy of it. 

Alex had pulled up his feet when he'd sat down. Now they were resting against his thigh, pushing along with the action on the screen. Walter endured this for a bit, then grabbed the most offending foot -- the outer one -- by the ankle and placed it on top of his thigh. He held it there. Alex turned from looking at the tv to him. Grinned his apology and went back to his beer and the game. 

Walter took a couple of swallows of his beer, smiled down at the foot still participating in the game. 

Alex was wearing thick white terry socks. He never wore shoes indoors and hated even slightly greyed socks. He would wear t-shirts till you could see through them, jeans until they were white, shirts till the cuffs and collars were frayed, but shorts and socks were forever being replaced with new ones. These were brand new: they still had that never-washed sheen to them. 

Walter looked at Alex, oblivious to all but the game. He looked back down at the foot on his lap. He bit his lower lip and smiled at the foot. 

He moved his grip on the ankle a little bit higher so he could roll the sock off. Slowly. So as not to distract Alex. 

It was a little like a strip-tease. The narrow lower leg. The ankle with the protruding bones. The bony heel. The high arch. The long, narrow toes. 

Walter checked: Alex was still with the game. 

With the index finger of his free hand, Walter drew a line from above the ankle down over the top of the foot to the middle toe. 

The foot gave a little shake. 

The finger went back to the ankle, skimmed over the skin, linking the two ankle bones with figure eights. 

The ankle wriggled. 

The hand holding the leg moved down to the ankle, its thumb caressing the bone under it. Gently. Back and forth. 

Alex looked at Walter. Walter was watching the game. A loud cheer called Alex back. 

The finger began stroking the heel, gradually moving out to sketch the arch. 

The foot twisted a bit, trying to pull away. 

The finger slipped back and forth down the arch to the sole. 

The foot tugged. 

The hand held firm. 

Alex's other foot pushed against Walter's hip. When the hand did not release the naked foot, it shoved harder. Walter shifted his body a bit, waited for the foot to protest again, caught it between the seat and his body, settled so that it was now immobile. 

Walter returned Alex's glare with an innocent look. Pointedly he turned his gaze to the tv. The captured foot wiggled, or tried to. Walter shifted his weight just enough to convince it that wasn't a smart move. 

The foot on his lap wriggled, but the hand holding it merely tightened its hold and after a moment or two, the foot gave up. 

The finger began making tiny circular movements in the dip where the ankle became the foot. Then it moved onto the top of the foot, following the line of bone to each toe, and back again to the dip. 

The foot twitched. 

The finger shaped the outline of the foot. Dragged along the callused outer rim, calluses that matched those on the outer edge of Alex's hand. It paid particular attention to each toe, tracing the shape with just the barest touch. Carefully drew the sensitive arch. 

There was screaming from the tv: some spectacular foul that got even Walter's attention. The foot tried to take advantage of that. Alex yanked. The foot slipped out of Walter's grip, but not enough. 

The hand clamped down, yanked back hard in its direction and Alex slipped to the small of his back. 

This time the finger was ruthless. With the tip of its nail, it stroked the underside of the foot, where it was most ticklish. 

The leg tried hard to pull it away from the finger's relentless torture. To no avail. The hand just gripped tighter, pulled the leg straight. And the one tormenting finger became five. 

Alex cursed, shoved his body down the couch until his knee threatened Walter's jaw. 

Walter pulled his chin back just in time. Then he let his upper body fall onto the legs, separating them. One was imprisoned between his body and the back if the couch; the other, knee bent, at an angle hanging over the edge of the seat. 

The foot was, for all of Alex's attempts, still firmly clasped in the hand. Shoulder pushing back on Alex's groin, Walter brought the foot to his chest, and then with just a bit more effort to his mouth. He bit on the heel, harder the more Alex pushed against his shoulder. 

Alex finally got the message and lay still. Waiting. 

A tongue gently caressed the teeth marks on the skin, moved to the part of the arch it could reach. 

Alex wriggled. 

Walter could feel another reaction beneath his shoulder blade. The pads of his fingers gently caressed the undersole in short, light strokes from heel to toes. 

The toes wiggled. 

The foot twitched. 

The cock hardened. 

Alex growled. 

Walter smiled. 

*******************************************************

  
Archived: June 02, 2001 


End file.
